


Stolen Glances

by okayokayigive



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayokayigive/pseuds/okayokayigive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always like this. It was never like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Glances

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray back into smut in mumble years, courtesy of the “Trust and Vows” square on my Trope Bingo card. Huge thanks and love and cheers for [Chrissy](http://jaxin88.tumblr.com), whose input brought this fic from “yes?” to “yes!” (plot-wise, that is. ahem.)

It was always like this.

Rough. Up against a wall, a building, the outside of the TARDIS.

Passions boiling over, jealous tempers flaring, lip-bruising kisses and rough callouses catching on soft flesh. Actions borne of possession and panther-like stalking. Staking claim, words like “mine” and “only” and “no one else” and “forever”, growled and panted and bitten into mouths and flesh and skin. Two lives catapulted from holding hands and stolen glances to desperate, end-of-the-world fucking on, against, and sometimes through every available surface. The coral struts, the stairwell outside her mum’s flat, alien furniture and alien walls on alien planets across the universe.

And a conference room in Downing Street. Of course.

He was the Oncoming Storm, driving into her and propelling them into the past and the future, through nebulae and black holes and the nothingness of the Time Vortex. Possessing her. Owning her. A damaged man burying himself in her heat, her tightness, the pleasure that drowned his pain.

In her mind, it was always like this.

—

In the end, it was just another day, another planet, another “we’re in trouble, Rose, run for your life”. Just another Tuesday, really - if Tuesdays existed on a time ship. (Which, he was quick to remind her, they most certainly did not.)

There was no big shift, no obvious tipping point, the day that he didn’t let go of her hand. He pulled her close, looked at her with a soft smile, and then—

He was kissing her.

Soft. Gentle. With promise…and just a hint of fear.

"Good night, Rose," he whispered, as he pulled back and released his hold on her.

And that was that.

—

Weeks of goodnight kisses, of good morning kisses, of we-saved-the-day kisses, of everybody-lives kisses followed close on the heels of that ordinary night. The sparks and gasps of tongues meeting for the first time, of hands inching under jumpers and hoodies, of tentative caresses of breasts and necks and bums and ears. Of bodies crashing, grinding, pulsing together, fully clothed. Of buttons popped and fingers grazing coarse hair before pulling back. Of falling asleep entwined on the sofa in the media room, hips cradled within hips, chest cradled upon chest, waking together and blushing at the shared intimacy, so much more than where they know they’re headed.

And then, one night, a push from the TARDIS, when the door to the library opens to his bedroom instead. A shared look. A shared breath.

And then.

A kiss that starts in the doorway, his hands running up and down her sides, hers twined behind his neck. Stumbling steps - his forward, hers back. His eyes open so she doesn’t fall - he won’t let her fall, never let her fall - but also because he wants to see, to capture every moment. She stops short as her legs hit the mattress. He pulls back, eyes questioning.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Are you?"

He falters, steps away, looks down. “I want this. But Rose, I…”

Gliding back into his personal space, she tilts his chin up with a confidence she doesn’t quite feel. The vulnerability in his eyes takes her breath away.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Then let go."

He breathes, nods in agreement - and suddenly they’re in motion again.

She tugs off his jumper; he unzips her hoodie, unhooks her bra, and watches as she shrugs them both to the floor.

Her nipples crinkle as he nears them, first with his hands, then with his mouth.

His touch couldn’t be more gentle.

She half-moans, half-laughs - her fantasies were  _wrong_.

In a flash, she is on the bed, and he is pulling her jeans, knickers, shoes, socks, off-off-off. Frozen, breath catching, he gazes at her, spread naked before him for the first time.

She blushes for a moment, then sits up, unclasping his belt, unbuttoning his fly.

What spurs him into movement, she doesn’t know, but in a flash he is pushing his pants down, kicking his boots off, and covering her, all in one seamless move.

Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Her nipples rubbing in his chest hair, his erection firm against her belly.

—

For all the time travel she’d done, she’d never really believed in his ability to manipulate time until now.

Because this moment - this moment when he shifts his hips, looks deep into her eyes, and rubs the tip of his cock against her folds - this moment seems to last forever.

She wants to ask - opens her mouth to ask - but then.

Oh, but then.

He is inside her.

Sliding in, softly, gently.

Breathing her name like it’s a prayer to time itself.

She closes her eyes - just for a moment - opens them again, and he’s  _moving_. Slow, and firm, and deep, and it’s nothing like she’d ever imagined, but it’s just  _perfect_  and “yes, Doctor, don’t ever stop” and “oh, my Rose, my beautiful Rose” and words give way to incoherent noises and musical Gallifreyan chants and he is speeding up and she feels him deeper, harder,  just like that and she is cresting and she is falling falling falling…

Arms wrap tight around her, under her shoulders, holding her close. In the distance, she hears him as  _he_  falls: “Rose, oh, Rose!”

A precious moment. A stolen glance.

And then: silence.

—

In the morning, she ignores the tear tracks on his face - but only because his smile is so bright when he looks at her, she can’t bear to sully it.

And that morning, and every morning after, he kisses her like it’s the first time.


End file.
